


homilies and hymns of fire and brimstone

by lady_laverty



Series: death, life and all that follows [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Vikings, Blood, Gen, Original Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 01:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6544426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_laverty/pseuds/lady_laverty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/><em>They say the walkers of the sky come in the night, riding their pitch black horses with their one eyed crows and steal the dreams of children to feed on.</em><br/> </p><p>An AU where the Skywalkers are Old Gods and also the harbingers of the apocalypse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	homilies and hymns of fire and brimstone

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so, this fic came about from a sudden decision to watch a random episode of Vikings on SBS in Australia. It all snowballed from there into a more graphic rendition of the Skywalkers being more divine and "pagan" as such, compared to the seeming Christian origins they have. Shmi and her virginal pregnancy, the replication of Jesus and the Temple in Anakin teaching Qui-gon about being a slave, Anakin as the person who "brings balance to the force", etcetera, _etcetera_. 
> 
> This will likely be a series depending on the response. I'm not very good at writing long fics to be honest, so expect bite sized portions like this if I continue it.
> 
> Unbeta'd and all mistakes are my own.

 

> _Loki spake:_  
>  "'I have said to the gods | and the sons of the god,  
>  The things that whetted my thoughts;  
>  But before thee alone | do I now go forth,  
>  For thou fightest well, I ween.
> 
> Ale hast thou brewed, | but, Ægir, now  
>  Such feasts shalt thou make no more;  
>  O'er all that thou hast | which is here within  
>  Shall play the flickering flames,  
>  (And thy back shall be burnt with fire.)'"  
>  — Lokasenna, _Poetic Edda_ , Author Unknown.

 

Its single eye staring at the homely fire of a single human man and a single human girl child. It drinks in their presence and all that they speak.

_They say the walkers of the sky will never die._

_Papa, why is that?_

_Well, Ásvor, they are **gods** and gods can never die. _

_Can we not kill gods, papa? Why do they live while we turn to dust?_

_Because at the end of the world they will devour us all and win the fight against the darkness._

The crow calls, the sounds echoing through the forest eerily and beatifically.

 

\---

 

They say the walkers of the sky come in the night, riding their pitch black horses with their one eyed crows and steal the dreams of children to feed on.

They say the noise of crying and clinking of bones is the Mother of All, mourning the loss of the Shining One, the one who passed on and divvied his power into the crows that are their companions. 

They say that, eons ago, only one child of the Shining One begot a child, the Weeping One, to a man of the Old Blood though he did not carry any supernatural power.

They say that, eons ago, the Weeping One burnt away her child’s tether to this earth, weeping and howling, to save their life.

They say a lot of things about those who walk the skies but if you look closely enough you can see them walk in the night, riding their pitch black horses and the sounds of battle screams following after them.

 

\---

 

Ásvor (now called Rey, lovingly, for the sun with which she rises and falls daily) and her father, Ben, live in the forest of a thousand faces. It is not necessarily a bad spot to live, no thieving vagabonds from the villages close by will venture into their campsites and steal their possessions but there is an eeriness that does not leave her. Even after a decade of living there.

Her father is a monk from the land where the walkers of the sky are not called the walkers of the sky and where the Child was never supposed to have been born to a divine parent and one human parent, only to the will of the people, their force of will, as she understands.

They forget their culture, who they are, where they come from. The walkers of the sky do not judge. They do not cast down plagues like those of the land that from which Old Ben, as the villagers call him, came.

He comes from the place where they are merely ghosts of the pagan gods of old, the Jedi, long passed for a more cohesive religion, coalescing one being from all of these figures. Her father, one of the last monks of this old religion, fled when they burnt down their monastery, destroying all they had built for hundreds, thousands of years, to erase the old for the new.

(Sometimes she thinks she can hear the old monks crying, their entire world going up in flames and the faces continue to cry blood. ( _We do not dare call down the wrath of their god upon the conquerors,_ her father recounts from his experiences as a young boy, _we merely watched as all that generations of us had worked for is burnt to dust. Vengeance is not our right, they will get their dues._ ))

Whatever they are, she does not merely write them off as ghosts and weak.

(The blood that trickles from the eyes of the faces in the deepest parts of the forests make sure of that. It is not sap. She has studied it many times, the blood coalescing on the cheeks of the Weeping One and the Child.

They say the flow of blood is a sign the Child is still alive, that the blood is the humanity that the Weeping One tried to burn away, to cleanse.

If the Child’s face stops running with blood it means the End has come, the dark has stolen the Child away. The wind will howl and howl with the anger and despair of the Weeping One, her only child gone.)

Today he involves her in a ritual that they have prepared for weeks for, under the wooden face of the Child in a heavy oak tree. Blood is bowled and a solemn procession of the two of them begins, walking the well-known paths of the forest bare foot, light on her feet.

_“One with the earth, one with the Jedi.”_

They come to a stop in front of the tree.

 _“We offer this to thee,_ **_Behn-jah-meen_ _of the Jedi_** _.”_

Wind ruffles the trees, whispers of the forest intensify.

_“We offer this to thee, the end and the beginning of the Jedi.”_

The cacophony increases, her father dipping his right hand into the blood and flicking it onto the face of the Child, the noise hitting a crescendo as he drags his bloodied hands down his cheeks and draws runes on hers.

 _What does thou wish?_ The forest whispers, wind caressing their faces.

“Only for a plentiful crop for those of the village and the ability to do pay tribute to those who protect us once more,” her father replies, bending his cracking knees into the ritual meditative pose. She does the same, eager to be seen as deferent.

 _How loyal you are, young one, and how little you ask for_ , the forest whispers, a smile almost able to be seen in the shadows.

 “I want for nothing and wish only happiness and prosperity for my fellows in this time before the End,” her father speaks before reaching forward and to the ground, pushing his arms forward furthest out in front of to where the blood pools under the sacred tree.

 _How much you care for those who cast you asunder, without respect or welcome for those who may be divine_ , the spirit of the voice continues. _How selfless, how strong in these times of suffering, asking for nothing but prosperous times for others._

 _Accept thy neighbour as if it is the walkers of the sky themselves,_ the whisper of the forest sounds amused. _They follow the old ones but forget the blessed writings they passed down for a peaceful time leading to the End._

“Do not punish them for these acts, they do not understand which has not been taught to them,” her father pleads from his position prostrate on the dirt of the forest.

 _No we will not punish, nor will we cause suffering in revenge, little priest,_ the voice whispers, more layered now, as if there are more than one voice speaking at once. _Cast aside those fears and accept the place that you and the child that you call your daughter have in the reckoning._

“No, no, no! It is much too early!” Her father sits bolt upright, cross legged, accent she does not hear other than those times that he recounts the misery of his voyage from his destroyed monastery to the lands of her birth.

_We come for the child, we are not whole without her. The Child cannot take his place in the End without her presence._

“No, I will not!”

 _You **must.**_ _You **promised.**_

Something cold shivers through her body and she casts a look around the forest, the shadows seemingly moving closer like the cats of the village when you turn from your meal.

“I promised that I shall give her over when she has come of age, she has _not_ ,” her father howls, hands scrunched in a fist, blood flaking from them.

The shadows run hands over shoulders, pulling hair, sharp and reminding her of something that she doesn’t remember.

_The girl is ours! The girl is ours! You promised! We gave you this opportunity for a family for a price!_

“Yes, I know, I know, but please, I cannot _pay the price!_ ” Her father howls along with them.

 _Child, child, child,_ and the forest whispers in her ears as she is seemingly stuck to the ground, a witness to a fight between a mere man and a power far greater than him. _Ours, ours, ours!_

_Come home! Come home! It’s time to come home!_

She can’t help but give in to the demands of the voice, sudden exhaustion pushing her eyes closer and closer to closing. She hits the ground to the sight of her father’s (is he really? Who is she? Where did she come from?) face slackening in absolute terror.

 

\---

 

They say the Child is fractured, no longer whole. Taking after the father of his mother, breaking apart to spread parts of himself to the edges of the earth.

In some parts of the world, known and unknown, there are still sightings of the Weeping One trailing along the darkest paths of forests, her child’s horse dragging itself behind. Begging and pleading echo on and on.

**Author's Note:**

> Ásvor (Rey's given name rather than the colloquial name that Obi-wan gave her) is the feminine derived name from the Germanic _-waraz_ or _-warjaz_ which mean "vigilant", is also related to the Germanic word _warón_ which means "to be vigilant" as well as the Germanic word _warjan_ which means "defend, protect".


End file.
